


Salad Dressing

by BeneficialAddiction



Series: Hawk-Ace [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Clint, Asexuality, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint's pretty blunt, Clueless Phil, Date gone wrong, Deaf Clint Barton, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, Protective Phil Coulson, SHIELD Husbands, They're already married, let's talk about sex, off-screen handsy-ness, sex positive asexual, they just don't know it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-05-28 04:37:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15040874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Phil accidentally crashes Clint's date, which should suck but eventually teaches him something useful, even if the analogy is ridiculous.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for off-screen handsy-ness between Clint and another character. If you're sensitive to any kind of assault, please read with caution.

Phil Coulson absolutely does not mean to crash Clint Barton's date. 

It's kind of the very last thing on earth that he wants to do, to be perfectly honest. 

He'd really just wanted a couple of beers after a long week, perhaps a bit of company, but of course things couldn't be that simple. 

He should have known better, really, than to stop off at the Pour House on a Friday night with Jasper Sitwell in tow. The hole-in-the-wall bar is run by a former SHIELD Agent and is a favorite of juniors and seniors alike, both for food and drink and for the atmosphere. Impossible to access without flashing some sort of badge, the secret-agent type actually has a chance to relax and let their hair down without running the risk of alarming the average citizenry. 

Phil hadn't been looking to let loose or go wild, he'd honestly just wanted a drink and the space to take a breath. It's the end of the fiscal year, and he and Jaz have been holed up in their offices every waking moment for the last two weeks trying to sort the inevitable mess that are the SHIELD expenses. To cap it off, this year's crop of probationary agents had fallen so far behind that finals had arrived almost a month late, giving them that much more hardship and hassle to slog through. 

He should have known better. 

The Pour House isn't terribly packed, actually pretty quiet for a Friday night, soft rock crackling over the speakers and glass clinking in the corners. Phil chooses a familiar booth in the back with good sightlines to the exits – all the seats have good sightlines here – and sighs as he sinks onto the bench. 

They spend the next half hour bitching about the past month, the worst of the probies that they'd had to send back to basic training and the literal stacks over paperwork they'd slogged through. Phil's two beers go down so smoothly, cold and malty, that he forgets that Jasper is an unforgiveable lightweight. The frufru drinks he favors may smell like KoolAid and contain more fruit than a fruit salad, but they pack a powerful punch, and before he can intervene Jaz is tipsy sliding into drunk. 

Weariness sinks heavily into the pit of his stomach as he flags down the waiter to order a couple of burgers, adding on a basket of onion rings and fried pickle spears under the pathetic excuse that they had been real vegetables at least once in their life. He'd hoped to be in bed by eleven but Jasper shows no signs of slowing down, rattling on about one particularly nasty bit of funding while attempting to finish his Hurrican Twist by sucking it up through a fruit skewer instead of the straw. Resting his cheek on his fist, he settles in himself, concentrating on keeping his eyes open as he nods along to Jasper's complaints. 

The food comes and the burger helps, the closest thing he's had to a hot meal in some time. Jasper has one more drink before Phil officially cuts him off, while he himself switches to hot coffee, an oddity for a bar but certainly not for a SHIELD bar. Balling up his napkin he orders an Uber, then walks up to the bar to settle the tab, and there he is. 

It's not the familiar kick of his heart that he hates so much. 

Phil had gotten used to that particular reaction a long time ago. 

Nor is it any real hardship to lay eyes on one Clinton Francis Barton, Level Four Agent of SHIELD, codename Hawkeye. 

No, it's the profound sense of glumness that follows, the ache deep in his chest that won't go away. 

It's the _wanting,_ and he, Phillip J Coulson, Level Six Agent of SHIELD, the Director's good eye, cannot seem to rid himself of it, no matter what he tries. 

It's painful meeting Clint's gaze from the other end of the bar, watching his face brighten for just a moment, sharing the nod of acknowledgement only to watch him go back to the man he's with. Phil had nearly given in to banging his head against his desk the day he found out that Clint was bi. He knows why it's harder seeing him with a man than it is to see him with a woman, and tonight is no exception. Agent Adam Hart is well known in SHIELD for his undercover work but his marksmanship isn't bad either, putting him in the organization's top ten percent, and he's seen the two of them together on the range. 

The jealousy and the ridiculous anger that had surged in his chest upon seeing them there together had made sense – the range was Clint's domain and Phil had grown pridefully protective of the times he spent there 'supervising' his asset's training. Seeing them together here, logically, should be less wrenching, but he finds that it's not. 

Passing his SHIELD-issue credit card across the bar – Fury could pick up the tab on this one, damn the man – he very intentionally does not look at the two men at the other end. They've managed to snag a couple of coveted stools but they're turned toward each other, bodies loose and open, and Clint's grinning that grin that actually reaches his eyes, staring intently as Hart spins some story or other. Logically – because his logic will save him if nothing else does – he knows that Clint's probably just reading Hart's lips to compensate for the noise around them, but that doesn't really make him feel any better, and he heads back to Jasper as quickly as he can just to get a little more distance between them. 

It's not fair. 

Jasper, giggly, handsy drunk that he is, requires more help than a man his size and age should getting up and out of the booth. Phil grapples with him for a minute or two, contemplating the wisdom of just throwing him over his shoulder and carting his ass out to the cab but he manages to get himself together just in time to spare himself Phil's misplaced ire. He staggers toward the door, tossing up a wave to the room at large that catches Phil off-guard and jolts him into scanning the bar, ever situationally aware, only to find that both Clint and his date have disappeared. 

That realization causes an altogether different sort of twinge; dark, sickly jealousy snapping through him like an electric shock. 

Swallowing hard, he forcibly puts on his unflappable-agent mask and pushes out the door into the rain, only to find that Hart's got Barton backed up against the brick of the building near the mouth of the alley several yards away, grinning with smooth charm and standing far too close for Phil's comfort. 

At least the Uber is already there, waiting at the curb. 

As he's helping Jasper wobble into the criminally small backseat he does his best to ignore the couple standing only fifteen yards away, but as he makes sure his friend's seatbelt is buckled raised voices cause the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. 

_"Aw, come on."_

_"I said no Adam."_

_"Don't be like that Barton. We've had a great night."_

_"Then let's leave it at that."_

Jasper's given the driver his address competently enough, so Phil nods to the young man and stands back up out of the car. Jaz starts up a drunken rendition of Rhianna's Cheers, loud enough to be heard through the rolled-up window, and he takes a step back to round the car for the other side, but a sharp, angry snarl gives him pause. 

_"Don't be a fucking cocktease."_

Slapping the roof of the car, he sends it off and turns, prepared to do something unforgivably stupid by interrupting a lover's spat, only to find that it's something much more serious. 

_"I said back off asshole!"_

He turns just in time to see Clint give Hart a solid shove in the chest, with enough force to send him stumbling backwards. Dark anger flashes across the man's face as he throws out an arm to catch himself, but the idiot moves to lunge for Clint so fast that his boot slips in the puddle that's formed at the edge of the alley and he goes down with a shout and a splash, cracking his head off the side of the dumpster with a hollow, echoing clang and knocking himself out cold. 

Clint goes deadly still, looks between Phil and Hart three times, then snorts an ugly, choking laugh. 

"Umm... so this looks bad?" he says, his face all innocence and shameful mirth, half hysteria. 

Phil just sighs and shakes his head, steps forward to crouch down at Hart's side and check his pulse. 

"It wasn't your fault," he says, pressing his fingers to the back of Hart's head, both to check for blood and to shock the man back around. There's no cut, just a sizeable goose egg, and the man sucks in a breath under Phil's not-so-gentle ministrations, his eyelids fluttering as he blinks himself awake again. 

"Serves him right," Clint mutters, coming over to crouch beside him. 

"Yes," Phil hums, ears warm as he quickly decides not to address the elephant in the alleyway. "Level Three agent, as good undercover as he is... rather unforgivably clumsy of him. Can't seem to find it in me to feel bad for him." 

Clint is quiet, and Phil knows he's staring at him, so he bites the bullet and lifts his head, meets that brilliant, penetrating stare head-on. 

"Are you alright?" 

Clint looks away sharply despite Phil's gentle tone, his cheeks staining bright pink under the flicker of the bar's outdoor lights. 

"Fine," he mumbles, in a way that suggests he absolutely is not. "Let's just... get him up so I can get out of here." 

Hart is already coming around, half sat-up on his own power and looking around blearily, lifting his hands like a cat lifts its paws as he realizes he's sitting in a puddle that's part rainwater, part beer, and (likely) part piss. Phil manages to get a grip on his upper arm as Clint grabs him round the other, heaving the guy to his feet with little care or tenderness, and Phil can't say as he blames him. Pushing him back to rest against the brick wall of the bar, he reins in the sudden anger that swells up in his chest as Clint quickly lets go and steps back, puts some distance between them. He manages to catch the archer's eye but Clint just nods once, perfunctory, then steps to the curb to call a cab, leaving Phil to struggle with his self-control alone. 

"Aw, my fuckin' head," Hart groaned, one hand clutching the back of his skull. "Son of a bitch, Barton..." 

"I suggest you keep your mouth _shut,_ Agent Hart," Phil says with a dangerous chill in his voice. "Agent Barton made his lack of consent perfectly clear. Should he decide to press charges, I don't think the SHIELD court martial would find in your favor." 

Hart's face goes sickeningly pale at the implication his conduct had been witnessed. He opens his mouth to stammer out a nervous defense but Clint is back, well-known, formidable scowl darkening his features. 

"You need medical?" he asks gruffly, oddly careful and conscientious. 

Hart shakes his head rapidly, flicking Phil a fearful glance, then groans and leans over at the waist, breathing heavily through his nose. 

"Best to go anyway," Phil says in a tone of command, pulling rank though he probably shouldn't. "Nausea is a good sign of a concussion." 

"It's a SHIELD car," Clint says quietly, once again standing several steps away, his arms crossed over his chest and stretching the shoulders of his leather motorcycle jacket. "It can take him back to HQ." 

Phil nods and hauls Hart toward the SUV with all the gentleness of lion dragging off its prey, shoving him into the backseat and giving sharp instructions to the junior agent driving. He almost manages to hold his own silence, but cracks as he's shutting the door, hissing a threat under his breath that is professionally inappropriate and personally unnecessary. 

He does it anyway, and from the way Hart's eyes go wide Phil doesn't think he'll be pulling the same stunt again any time soon. Regardless, he'll be doing some investigating come Monday morning – such behavior is inexcusable in any man, let alone a SHIELD agent. 

"I'm not, you know." 

Phil only just manages not to startle – he hadn't _forgotten_ Clint, never that, but... 

He turns to Clint once more and finds him rocking back and forth on his heels, his arms still wrapped tight around himself. He's looking down at the pavement, up and down the street, anywhere but at Phil, and it hurts something small and tender inside him. 

"Not what?" 

"Not a tease!" Clint snaps, head jerking up sharply, eyes blazing in the dark. "I told him I wasn't going home with him." 

"Why not?" 

It's out before he knows he's going to say it, before his brain even forms the thought, and he blushes painfully hot, hideously embarrassed as Clint tilts his head, narrows his eyes. 

"Damn it, sorry, I didn't... I didn't mean that I blamed you. That was some real bullshit Hart pulled; he won't..." 

Huffing, Phil throws out a hand and looks away, shakes his head. 

"It just seemed like you were into him," he concludes lamely. 

An unbearable moment of silence passes but for the sounds of the city breathing quietly around them, and when Clint speaks he sounds strangely hesitant, unsure. 

"I... guess I was," he says slowly, rolling the words around in his mouth like he's testing them. "I mean, I know I like to flirt, but... I'm always honest about it." 

"It's fine if you were Clint," Phil says, suddenly exhausted and aching and feeling oddly hungover from his two beers an hour ago. "He's young and capable and... I get it, ok?" 

"Why do I get the feeling we're having two different conversations?" Clint asks suddenly, and the question washes over Phil like ice water, waking him up to the danger of what he's doing. "I do like men, men who are strong and competent and... I just... don't like sex ok?" 

Phil blinks. 

"What?" Clint asks defensively, turning slightly away and rubbing the back of his neck, scowling. 

"Nothing, it's just..." Phil stumbles, kicking himself for his unguarded reaction, his blank stare. "You're... very tactile." 

Clint's face cracks and he smiles brightly, laughing, open and honest. 

"I'm ace Phil, not traumatized," he says shaking his head. "Stop freaking out." 

"I'm not freaking out, I just..." 

"Come on," Clint sighs, stepping up to the curb and lifting his hand, once more hailing a car from where they line up at the end of the street on one of the main roads. "Let's at least take this back to quarters or something. It's gonna rain again." 

"My place is closer," Phil says dumbly, as the car pulls up and Clint opens the door. 

The beer and the exhaustion and the minor adrenaline crash from Hart's shitty behavior – borderline assault really – that his brain is going a little fuzzy on him. This is new information, data that he had somehow missed about the specialist he keeps such close tabs on, and he doesn't know how to fit it into the puzzle he's already put together, the pieces that make up the archer Clint Barton, World's Greatest Marksman. 

"Get in," Clint grumbles, nudging him forward into the backseat of a Yellow Cab, climbing in behind him. "Jesus Phil, you think I'd just told you I was a mutant." 

"I..." 

"Stop," Clint says, hand flat on the small of Phil's back as he pushes him further into the cab. "Just... wait, if you have to ask, ok?" 

So he does. 

Shuts up for the whole ride, until suddenly they're getting out in front of Phil's little brownstone and Clint's following him inside and he has no idea how this all happened. 

"I don't," he blurts abruptly in the middle of his kitchen, as he watches Clint take of his boots, hang his jacket on the coatrack. "Have to ask, I mean. It's none of my business." 

"Isn't it?" Clint huffs with a self-deprecating sort of laugh. "You're my boss, boss – if you're gonna trust me, you should know..." 

"I know what I need to," he interrupts, putting his hands in his pockets, then taking them out and crossing his arms over his chest. "I know... unless... Clint, are you sure you're ok?" 

Because that's the thing isn't it? 

That's the real fear. 

Not just that Hart had pushed him tonight, but that his father, his brother, Trickshot or the Swordsman or any of the others who had so cruelly used him in the past had injured him far more than Phil had ever understood. 

"I told you, sir," Clint says quietly, looking him in the eye. "I'm asexual. Not traumatized. Not saying that's not a legit thing, but it's not _me._ I've had sex before, even jerk off sometimes, but for me it's just... _meh."_

Phil stares, tries to wrap his foggy brain around this. 

It's not that he has a problem with it, far from that. 

He just... he kind of had a sheltered upbringing. He didn't know what homosexuality was for a long time, only started to understand himself when he went into the Rangers, where he had little hope of being accepted. He'd found a refuge in SHIELD all those years ago, broadening his horizons and opening his eyes, but he's not... _practically experienced_ in these things. 

He gets the feeling that he'll have a better grasp of all this after a good night's sleep and a greasy breakfast, but he gets the irrational, uneasy feeling that if he turns away from Clint now, he'll never see him again. Jerking his chin, he wanders into the living room and collapses into the corner of the couch, half-sitting, half-lying with his knees drawn up so that Clint can sit down at the other end, turned to face him. 

"So you don't... _like_ other people?" he asks, stupidly and too forlornly given who they are to each other. 

Clint tilts his head, looks him up and down, wary and nervous, but somehow... _heated_ too. 

"Oh no," he murmurs, liquid and dark, a purr that ripples down Phil's spine. "No, other people I... very much like." 

Phil swallows hard, unsure of exactly what that means, of the hope that has suddenly surged in his chest. 

"But you don't..." 

"Sex isn't intimacy for me," Clint explains, "It's just a thing people do. It's... it's like salad." 

"Salad?" Phil frowns, more confused now than before. 

"Yeah. Some people love it, right? Some people crave it, some people like it every now and then. For me, it's just... meh." 

"Meh." 

Clint huffs a laugh, grins at Phil's parroting. 

"Exactly. Won't kill me to eat one, but it doesn't mean I'm going to enjoy it. I might not ever go out of my way for it, might avoid it most of the time, but... doesn't make it a _painful_ experience." 

"So... not disgusting then," Phil says slowly, as the puzzle piece slowly fits into the picture he has of Clint Barton. "Just... boring?' 

"Close enough," Clint agrees with a shrug. "I might not pick up a menu and say _'Damn, I want an amazing salad,'_ but maybe sometimes I eat one because it's put in front of me." 

"And you weren't in the mood for Hart's salad?" 

Clint barks a laugh, loud and happy, startling after the mood of the evening. 

"Go to sleep boss," he says fondly, pushing to his feet. "See, I'm alright. You can get a few hours of peace now, before you head back to the office." 

"I just wanted to make sure you were ok," Phil mumbles, shabby self-defense. 

Clint pauses just behind the couch, looking down at him like Phil's said something profound, before shaking his head and putting on a boyish grin. 

"I'm good. Being ace might be hard on the love life these days, but I'll live. Besides, I think Adam got the worst of it tonight. Don't worry about him sir - he's not as much of an ass as he looked tonight. He'll come slinking around tomorrow to apologize." 

"Still gonna check up on him," Phil mutters, face pressed against the back of the couch where he's starting to fall asleep, the weariness weighing heavily now that he's been reassured. "Can't be pulling that shit..." 

"Night Phil." 

****

AVAVA

He wakes up around noon the next day and doesn't feel much better. He makes himself a sweet potato hash with eggs and sriracha and avocado and downs a massive glass of orange juice, popping two Excedrin while he's at it, and spends the afternoon lounging around in his underwear because he can. It's uncouth and boorish and screams of a bachelor, which is probably why he does it, catching up on his Netflix cue and eating popcorn out of the bag. There's something niggling at him that he can't name, something that itches at the back of his mind, and he's back in bed for the night before it hits him, before he understands.

Well, thinks he understands. 

Suspects. 

_Hopes,_ maybe. 

Time, and more questions, will tell.

**AVAVA**

"So is that why you don't date?"

Phil only just manages not to face-palm at his hideously delivered question, in the terse quiet of a safehouse after a milk-run gone awry. He'd meant to tiptoe around the subject, to find the answers he sought delicately and sneakily, but as soon as he and Clint had made it back to HQ Monday morning they'd been shipped off to Malaysia to retrieve a package. As it is he handles it with all the delicacy of a game of Whack-a-Mole, all guesswork and too much blunt force. 

His shoulders go high and tight but he resolutely continues to stir the tomato sauce he's got heating on the tiny stove, saucepan dented and wooden spoon scorched. 

Behind him Clint laughs, a sound Phil is coming to love despite the fact that he himself is so often the cause of it, he and his stupid questions, and starts packing up the first-aid kit noisily. 

"I date Sir, or haven't you noticed?" he replies with his most charming grin (and yes, Phil has them catalogued). "I'm the biggest heartbreaker in SHIELD." 

"I didn't mean that, I know you... date," he says. "I meant you don't... date-date." 

"Never thought I'd hear you talking like a high-schooler boss," Clint chuckles, hoisting the kit onto his shoulder and carrying it into the kitchen to stash it back in the cabinets. 

Phil blushes, unaccustomed to feeling so tongue-tied, even around Clint, but... 

But this is important, and his eyes catch on the stark, white bandage wrapped around Clint's bulging bicep, and he wants more than he's let himself think about before... 

"I date," Clint continues, leaning past Phil to dip a spoon into the pot he's stirring, to steal a taste of the sauce. "Just, not more than once, usually. Not anymore. Once you get to three, people just..." 

Phil frowns, makes a noncommittal sound because he doesn't know what to say now that he's started down this road. Grabbing down a pair of bowls, he plates up heaping piles of spaghetti, topping them with the rich, spicy sauce, carb loading to counter the come-down that inevitably follows an op gone pear-shaped. Clint follows him to the tiny, rickety table in the corner, sits down across from him and takes up his fork, but he's slouched back in his chair, watching Phil with melancholy at the corners of his mouth. 

"Most people..." he says, slow and wounded, "Most people think sex is love. They say they're ok with it, when you tell them, that you can still have a relationship. Next thing you know though, they're pushing for a kiss, then a blow, then a fuck, telling you they can't be in a loveless..." 

Phil looks up, surprised by the bitterness in his tone, his appetite gone in the face of what this means, what this has meant for Clint. He's staring blankly at the wall, his eyes far away, and Phil can see he wants nothing more than to have an arrow in his hands, just from the way he turns his fork around and around and around. 

"Stupid," he mutters, almost to himself. "There are so many other ways to show somebody you..." 

And that's when he knows. 

_That's_ the answer to his questions, all of them, right there. 

He's been in love with this man for years, he'd admitted that to himself a long time ago, but he'd never understood, always watched with aching heart as he dated his way through SHIELD. He did have a reputation, yes, and Phil in his misunderstanding had thought it meant something entirely the opposite of what he now suspects. He'd thought Clint a lothario, a gorgeous, care-free man who preferred bed-hopping to fidelity. 

Now, now he sits across from him and the truth sits heavy on his shoulders, all those ways to show someone you love them without the sex... 

The way Clint flirts, his voice all warmth and intimacy over the comms. 

The way he always knows when Phil is in most desperate need of a strong, black coffee. 

The way he writes knock-knock jokes down on post-its and sticks them in Phil's pockets whenever he has to go on a mission without him, and the way he always lets Phil know, in deliberate, serious words, that he's got his six when they go together. 

It's all he wants to know. 

Getting to his feet, he rounds the table, and Clint looks up at him with patient surprise and trusting confusion. Phil stands there, a bit like an idiot, unsure of what to do now because he'd always imagined a passionate kiss, fantasized a heated embrace. Now he's unsure, does not know where the line lies or what he might be allowed, what might be welcome, yet Clint seems to understand this. 

Shakily, he gets to his feet, swallowing hard and licking his lips like he's anxious, and then Phil knows what is the most natural thing in the world to do. 

Stepping forward into Clint's space, Phil opens his arms and slowly slides them around Clint's ribs, wraps him up in a hug that is slow and deep and warm, the low, banked coals of a hearth fire where he had once expected fireworks. He finds his fear of being disappointed is unfounded, because more than anything it feels like coming home. 

Clint tucks his face into the curve of Phil's neck and sighs, a shudder running down his spine that Phil smoothes away with his palm, long, light strokes. They stand there, for a long time, until Clint starts to pull away and Phil has to let him go, only to stand there even longer staring at each other like teenagers. 

"What does this mean?" Clint asks carefully, his hands still on Phil's hips. 

"I only know what it means for me," Phil says, reaching up to cup Clint's jaw in his hand. "I like you. Have done, for a long time. Maybe... maybe even a little more than like." 

Clint's eyes light up for all of a second as Phil makes his admission, before quickly shuttering again into a mask of self-protection that Phil is painfully familiar with. 

"But I don't..." 

"Years Clint," Phil insists gently, "All the time with no hope that I'd ever get to... share a salad with you." 

Clint's face cracks and he ducks his head, sniggering helplessly. When he lifts his head again his eyes are damp and full of cautious hope. 

"Is this for real?" he asks, voice tight. "Cause you're not the only one Phil, I mean, I... I don't know if I could deal if you changed your mind. Been too scared to even take a chance all this time, even though I..." 

"I want this," Phil says, painfully, blatantly honest. "I want you. I won't lie – I wasn't expecting this – but I've had more than one kind of fantasy where you're concerned. I'd love to cook for you. To watch Dog Cops on the couch with you or take you to a ball game. To hold your hand when you're passed out it medical and have a better reason for being so afraid than the one-sided pining that pisses Fury off so much." 

"It's gonna take me a while to believe you," Clint says, in a tone that suggests he's trying to warn Phil away while still praying that he won't. "Three dates, at least...' 

"Three months, three years, three decades," Phil says, his heart swelling inside his chest as long-held, unrealistic hopes threaten to suffocate him. "I want to make you believe it. I'm probably gonna mess it up Clint, but if you..." 

"Yeah," Clint agrees, nodding insistently, reaching up to wrap his hand around the back of Phil's neck and pull him in close, pressing their foreheads together. "Yeah. Please." 

"Alright then." 

Silly. 

Not the smoothest thing to say, not the most... efficient. 

But it's enough, enough of an understanding and enough of a promise to be getting on with, and they stand there staring at each other far too long for two men with their reputations. 

Phil doesn't care.


	2. Chapter 2

It's interesting, dating Clint. 

Nothing like he'd thought it would be. 

It's almost like they'd skipped the honeymoon phase entirely and just gone straight to being so _god-damn married,_ and Phil finds that he doesn't really mind. There's still plenty of new things to discover, new experiences to have, and he likes that he finally gets to do a lot of the things he's wanted to for a long time. 

Phil gives Clint his traditional three dates, sending him home each time with a kiss on the cheek, and it's like a thread breaking, the tension cracks so hard. He hadn't really noticed it until it had snapped, but once it had it became painfully obvious how much Clint had been holding back. After those first three dates Clint became a more intense, more beautiful version of himself, flirty and tactile and silly, all the things that Phil knew he was and adored. 

They go to flea markets and farmers' markets on the weekends, and Phil holds Clint's hand. 

Clint sneaks into his office for a nap on his couch and he gets to comb his fingers through the archer's silky blonde hair when he wakes him up for a meeting. 

They have dinner together, Thai ordered in to Phil's apartment where they eat cuddled up on the couch just like he'd imagined, and it's wonderful. 

It's easy to give him a key at the two-month mark. Clint still lives in a room in the SHIELD barracks, cramped and spartan, so they spend most of their time at Phil's place anyway. He explains that he wants Clint to feel comfortable there, welcome, with or without Phil, and says nothing about the desire to have him move in. 

Hard not to blurt that out the third time he comes home to find Clint already there, barefoot in his kitchen making cookies. He stands in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the wall, watching Clint watch him in the reflection of the window over the sink, and soaks it in, the calm, quiet domesticity of it all that he hadn't known he'd wanted before. 

"God you're gorgeous," Clint says quietly, and Phil startles, not only because it seems like Clint has read his mind. 

"What, really?" he asks, stunned. 

Clint chuckles, turns around to face him as he wipes his hands clean on a towel. 

"Do you not believe it because it's you?" he asks, smiling softly and stepping forward to take Phil into his arms, position them both into the beginning of a waltz. "Or do you not believe it because it's me?" 

Phil blinks, stalls in his reactive response because that's far more introspection than he'd expected from either Clint or, apparently, himself. 

“I don’t know,” he says slowly, wonderingly. “I knew there must be something about me that you liked, but I assumed it was…” 

“Your sparkling personality and penchant for staying in your office way too late?” 

“Yes," he replies flatly, frowning. "That.” 

“Physical attraction and sexual attraction are two different things for me,” Clint explains, leaning in so that they’re dancing cheek to cheek, pressed close. “I can look at you and think _‘Damn he’s a handsome bastard,’_ just like anyone else, but instead of immediately going to _‘I wanna hit that’_ like most other people, I go to _‘Man, I wanna cuddle that. I wanna come home to that.’_ You’re smooth Phil, and you’re competent and nicely shaped, and it’s hot, even if my definition of hot means something… different. It’s like… you’re gay right? Kinsey 6?” 

“Essentially," he agrees, not sure where Clint's taking his analogy. 

“Ok. But you can still look at a woman and think damn, she’s beautiful. You might not want to actually do the dirty with her, but you can… appreciate the appeal.” 

“That… makes a lot of sense actually.” 

“I find you attractive, ok?" Clint grins, a laugh in his voice as he pulls back to bump their noses together. "Physically appealing even. Don’t doubt that just because I don’t…” 

Very suddenly Clint lets go and steps back, sighs heavily as his shoulders slump. 

“That's how it starts,” he murmurs, his voice half an octave from cracking as he rubs the back of his neck. “That's when…” 

“No,” Phil insists, closing the distance between them and putting his hands on Clint’s elbows, to soothe the archer as well as himself. “Clint, that’s not what’s happening here, I promise. I’m not mad, I’m not… _deprived._ Just curious. Maybe a little dumb when it comes to these things. I just want to make you feel happy, and loved, and cared for. This, this doubt, these questions, that’s all that is. I just want to know how to do those things better.” 

Clint huffs, a little sadly, before offering him a smile and stepping forward, putting his hands back on Phil’s hips. 

“You do alright,” he murmurs, and then he’s ducking down and pressing a long, chaste kiss to Phil’s lips.

**AVAVA**

“So what _do_ you like?” 

It's hours later, after dinner and dishes and three episodes of Supernanny, with Clint curled up beside him on the couch, his head on Phil's hip. The way he blurts it out it seems abrupt, out of nothing, but the question has been niggling at him for a long time, especially after their conversation earlier. 

“I like hugs," Clint says with a sappy smile, his eyes still on the screen. "Hugs are great. I like cuddling in bed. I like pets and skin-on-skin contact, and kissing. I like of lot of things that are considered good foreplay, so… maybe I am kind of a tease.” 

“It’s not the same thing," Phil immediately argues, because that much he does know. "You don’t owe anyone sex, even if you _do_ do all those things.” 

“I guess not.” 

“So what _don’t_ you like then? What’s too much?” 

“It’s… kinda on a sliding scale?" Clint says, clearly a question as he quirks his mouth and lifts an eyebrow. "Like, I like kissing, but not Frenching. I won’t freak out and slug you if I feel your tongue, but I’m not gonna play tonsil hockey with you either.” 

“Ok.” 

“I like being touched. Almost all over, but not if you’re doing it just to get my motor revving.” 

“Makes sense.” 

“Look," he says suddenly, pushing himself away to turn and face Phil right-side-up. "I’m not gonna hate you either way if you push a little too far by accident. I told you, it’s not gonna traumatize me, but it’s gonna turn me off pretty quick.” 

“Will you promise to tell me?” Phil asks, and it comes out as heavy and serious as it feels. “Somehow? It doesn’t have to be words, just... make sure I know?” 

Clint's frown breaks and he laughs. 

“When did I turn into one of those internet cats?" he grins. "The ones that roll over and beg you with their eyes to rub their belly, but then two seconds later they’re going all tiger-shark on your hand?” 

“You’ve certainly got the eyes down,” Phil scolds gently. “But I’ll try not to…” 

“Don’t try too hard," he insists. "I don’t want you to _change_ for me. And I’m not gonna punch you in the face if we’re snuggled up and one of us gets a stiffie or something ok? Just don’t make it weird.” 

Phil snorts and shakes head, even as Clint's eyes light up in silent laughter. 

“I’ll do my best," he promises.

**AVAVA**

Three weeks later, Clint stuns him again, in an entirely different way. 

They're crashed out at Phil's place again after a week-long op, the kind that he absolutely hates because there's no real pay-out at the end, just a ton of build-up with very little to show for it. Normally he would go down to the Senior Agents' gym on the third floor and pound out the energy on a boxing bag, or on a treadmill, or something, but Clint's sprained an ankle quite badly and Phil had wanted to get him home. 

And no, he's not dealing with that thought right now, thanks very much. 

He's got other problems to deal with. 

One problem specifically. 

He's doing his absolute best not to squirm in the corner of the couch with Clint beside him, close enough that he's leaning lightly against Phil's shoulder, his bum foot propped up on the coffee table. He's nearly broken out in a sweat keeping his body loose, not letting the tension and the discomfort seep into his muscles, but he doesn't know how to get up and excuse himself tactfully. 

He's hoping he can just ride it out, but who is he kidding – he's dating a man called Hawkeye. 

"So, uh..." Clint starts, his hands folded together on his belly as the tv clicks over to a commercial. "How do you wanna handle that?" 

Phil feels the tips of his ears burn as he's jerked straight back to middle school, trying to hide an erection behind his binder as he hobbled out of class to the restrooms. 

"I thought you said not to make it weird," he manages to reply, mouth as dry as cotton, heart pounding. 

"You didn't," Clint replies, sounding as calm as Phil is not. "I asked." 

Phil licks his lips, takes a deep breath. 

"What are my options?" he asks hesitantly. 

"Well, we can both ignore it until it goes away, but that's not exactly comfortable," Clint says, ticking his fingers to count, like they're talking about something as salacious as Coke versus Pepsi. "You can hit the head, take a cold shower or rub one out if that works better." 

"So crass," Phil tries to tease, even though his throat feels about as tight as his pants. 

Clint just snorts. 

"You can do it here," he concludes with a shrug, casual as anything, eyes still on the tv, and Phil kind of hates him because he's pretty sure his heart stops. 

"Here?" 

"Yeah. I mean, I'm mostly gonna ignore you till you're done, probably make fun of you a little after, but..." 

"Why do I get the feeling that would be the most entertaining option for you?" Phil grumbles, scolding himself for being so tense and pushing himself up off the couch. 

Clint laughs, leans forward and picks up the remote. 

"Up to you babe," he replies, and of all the things he's said, that's what stops Phil in his tracks, already behind the couch as he heads toward the bathroom, that single, unremarkable pet-name. "I don't expect you to go full-on carnivore just because I'm not into the salad." 

"Your analogies need work," Phil says, because he can't think of anything else. "I'm... going to need some time to process that idea." 

"Sure." 

"I'm going to go take a shower." 

"Cool. Kiss me first." 

Phil huffs a little laugh, half stupid, because what else is he supposed to do with this ridiculous, beautiful, patient man? 

Kiss him like he asked, that's what.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **ATTENTION ATTENTION**  
> 
> 
> This chapter contains a consensual sex act. Yes, it happens. Yes, Clint is still asexual. If this is a trigger for you, please take care of yourself <3

Things get a little easier after that. Phil gets a little more comfortable, isn’t so stiff and awkward when he inevitably gets... stiff and awkward. Clint takes it all in stride and with remarkable good humor, chuckling to himself or outright teasing him whenever a situation ‘arises,’ and for Phil’s part he feels a lot more relaxed now that he has permission to take himself in hand again. 

Not that Clint had ever forbidden him from having a little Me Time of course. He just... hadn’t been sure. This whole thing has been a learning process for him with a significant curve to it, though his partner – yes, _partner_ – has assured him he’s doing just fine. He’s still uncomfortable doing anything sexual when they’re together, more so even than Clint himself, and he thinks if he hears Clint tell him to relax one more time he’s going to develop a permanent twitch under his left eye, but it’s worth it, all of it’s worth it. 

He gets almost everything he’s ever dreamed of, and the things he doesn’t, well, those he finds he doesn’t miss nearly as much as he feared he would. 

Waking up late on a lazy Sunday morning with Clint sprawled across his chest, sleeping soundly, is better than any sex fantasy he could have dreamt up anyway. 

With the day to themselves and no disaster looming on the horizon, they have brunch at a waffle bar before spending the day walking around the zoo, wandering slowly around the park that housed animals from nearly every corner of the globe. Clint takes pictures on his phone and turns to him with bright smiles and _remember whens,_ and Phil just stands back and soaks it all in. 

Back at their apartment late in the afternoon, they split a pizza and a couple of beers each, then spend an hour or so on the couch with bowls of ice cream and National Geographic documentaries. Clint kisses him, and it’s cold and sweet and mint-chocolatey, and Phil doesn’t think he’s ever spent a more perfect day. 

Then Clint’s hand lands on his knee and slowly starts massaging a hypnotic rhythm up the inside of his thigh. 

“What are you doing?” 

He doesn’t yelp the way he wants to, actually manages to keep his voice pretty calm and dry but Clint shoots him an unimpressed look all the same. 

“What do you think I’m doing?” he hums, sliding his hand slowly towards Phil’s dick. 

Body and brain at odds with each other, Phil squirms, but he isn’t sure if he moves toward or away from the stimulation. 

“Clint, you... I thought you didn’t... You don’t _have to.”_

“You know how you take me to the arcade sometimes when I’ve been good for medical, even though they cut my range access?” he asks, leaning heavily against Phil’s side and tucking his face into the curve of his throat. 

Phil has to swallow a gasp, clear his throat before he can answer, because Clint’s strong fingers have curved lightly over his fly, cupping his rapidly hardening cock. 

“I... yes?” 

“Do you _like_ going?” 

“Not really? It’s not exactly my... I like that _you_ like it.” 

“Exactly.” 

“Doesn’t really feel like the same thing.” 

“Why not?” 

“I don’t know,” Phil whines, his hips bucking up into Clint’s hand without his permission as he grips the cushions on either side of his hips. “I feel like I’m... taking advantage.” 

Clint’s hand abruptly leaves his lap and he can breathe again, at least until he drags his eyes open and finds Clint staring at him with the warmest, fondest, most loving look Phil’s ever been on the receiving end of in his life. 

“If you were coercing me,” he says slowly, “Or bribing me or something, then yeah, you would be. Or if you were constantly pushing and prodding and giving me the old wink-wink-nudge-nudge. But you don’t. You don’t bitch and complain, you never push, you don’t even ask.” 

“So this is my reward?” he asks, suddenly even more uncomfortable. “My trip to the arcade?” 

“Kinda?” Clint says, clearly a question as his mouth quirks. “I mean when you say it like that it sounds bad. We’re not working off quid pro quo here, I’m just... offering.” 

Sitting up, he turns toward Phil and looks him in the eye, his hand coming up to cup Phil’s jaw with awe and curiosity. 

“Look, I trust you ok? You won’t take more than I said I’d give, you won’t assume that this time guarantees the next time. I’ve never really had that before. I know I can be a bucket of mixed signals on a good day, but it doesn’t _hurt_ me to do this for you. If you’re not comfortable with it then we’ll leave it alone, but don’t say no because of me.” 

“I just don’t want you to think something’s missing,” he says honestly, and Clint smiles. 

“There’s not for _me,”_ he says, lightly but pointedly, and Phil’s ashamed to feel the heat of a blush cross his cheeks. 

“Look, I’m... pretty much in love with you,” he says with a bashful, half-scared grin, and Phil’s heart kicks over in his chest. “I like what we have. Doing this, this isn’t payback, or a reward, or whatever you’re trying to convince yourself it’s not. It’s just another couple’s activity that I’m not super into.” 

Huffing softly, he looks up at Phil from underneath his eyelashes. 

“Kinda like that wine tasting you took me to after-mission, that one time in Italy. 

Phil opens his mouth to argue, to tease, but that’s not what comes out of it. 

“I love you.” 

Clint blinks, stares like he’d never expected to hear that from Phil, and Phil kind of knows exactly how he feels, but it turns out he doesn’t need all the reassurances and arguments he’s quickly organizing in his head. 

Clint just smiles at him, blindingly happy, and reels him in for a kiss 

“God, but I love you too,” he says against Phil’s mouth, mumbling the words between breaths and pressing them against his lips. “God Phil, love you so much. Never thought I could have someone like you.” 

“You’re _easy_ to love,” Phil swears, his hands petting over Clint’s hair and his neck as he leans their foreheads together. “You’re _perfect_ Clint, why wouldn’t I...” 

“Can think of a couple reasons,” Clint chuckles, ducking his head and nosing into the curve of Phil’s throat. 

“Yes, your humor _does_ leave something to be desired...” 

“This from the man who makes the lamest dad-jokes in history.” 

Phil hums a laugh, shifts in his seat so that he’s half sprawled out along the couch and Clint can wedge himself in, half between the cushions and half in his lap. They stay like that for a few minutes, holding each other close, Phil just basking in the pure, unexpected joy of their declarations, those three little words. He probably should have seen the signs quite a while ago – god knew the underground SHIEILD pools had been betting on them long enough – but he and Clint had been friends for so long, good friends. When they’d started this dating thing he been terrified of messing it up, not just because of Clint’s asexuality, but it had been months since that night in the rain when Clint had first shared his secrets, since the safe house where Phil had shared his. 

This, this quiet, wonderful moment, was more than he’d ever dared to hope for. 

Clint being Clint, of course chooses to ruin it in the crassest way possible. 

“So,” he says somehow managing to convey a roll of his hips without actually moving. “You wanna?” 

Phil just barks a laugh. 

“Maybe next time,” he says, running his fingers over the top of Clint’s head where it’s resting on his ribs, through his silky hair. “I’m sorry I’m being such an ass about all this.” 

Clint lifts his head, looks up at him with a very serious expression. 

“You’re not,” he says heavily. “Phil. You’re sweet. And you’re trying, really hard. This is like, the opposite of the problem I usually have. You’re being... kind of awesome about the whole thing actually. Maybe a _little_ overprotective.” 

He smiles, stretches up and places a kiss on Phil’s chin before cuddling back up to his side. 

“But I think I can live with that.”

**AVAVA**

It takes longer to revisit the issue than Phil was anticipating. He isn’t the randy young buck he used to be when he was a junior agent, and without any deliberate stimulation on his part the problem doesn’t really... arise as often as it might have otherwise. All-in-all that’s probably a good thing, because it not only gives him and Clint time to settle into their new dynamic having confessed some rather strong feelings for each other, but it gives him a little time to get his head on right about it all.

Clint had said that sexual contact, when he offered it, wasn’t distressing, and Phil trusts him to be honest about that. He’s clearly spent several years learning about his sexuality and finding his own limits, and after many conversations and more ridiculous analogies, Phil is sure Clint wouldn’t do something so self-sabotaging as to upset himself by sleeping with Phil just to maintain the relationship. 

His own opinions and reactions are newer, and subsequently less certain. 

He thinks, however, that perhaps it’s a bit like blowjobs. 

For him anyway. 

See, he doesn’t particularly like giving them. Sounds selfish, but he has his reasons. The mere thought of the act makes his knees ache, and he chafes at the idea of being put in a position of submission like that, of vulnerability. Hard to watch your exits when you’ve got a mouth full of another man’s cock, hard to protect yourself... 

Anyway, it’s not his favorite. 

But he doesn’t _hate_ it. 

It doesn’t send him into an anxiety attack or have him swearing off sex forever. 

He’s even been known to _offer_ one to past partners, because he’d known that they enjoyed it. 

This seems... kind of like that. 

“Exactly like that,” Clint agrees, smacking a kiss to his cheek. 

He actually looks pretty damn proud when Phil offers up the tentative simile. 

So the next time they’re in that situation, nearly a month later, Phil takes Clint’s advice and doesn’t make it weird. 

He’s not fishing for anything, he swears. He honestly expects Clint to be at the range for at least another hour when he settles in for a rare early night, getting comfortable on his side of the bed and grabbing the lube from the nightstand drawer. When he’d first started dating Clint, even doing this much had been an exercise in overthinking, but he’s gotten past the concerns that he would hyper-focus on sexualizing the image of his asexual partner, fixate on masturbating to fantasies that forced him into a sexual body. Instead he finds himself touching his own hips with a sense of warmth and home and forever that’s nearly overwhelming. 

He thinks about Clint’s smile. 

Thinks about his eyes, so bright and clever and observant. 

Thinks about his humor and his courage and his strength. 

He thinks about his body too, yes, he does, but not with the overtly lustful heat that seems inappropriate. 

No, he thinks about his skin, tanned and scarred, the hard expanses of muscle that Phil likes to pet when they’re curled together in the mornings, wearing nothing but their underwear and dopey, love-stupid smiles, thinks about the curve of his biceps and the strength in his arms when he holds Phil close, the soft, plump curve of his lower lip when he pouts. 

He’s hard and stroking himself lightly over his boxers when he hears the front door close, hears Clint come clomping in. His hand stills briefly before he scolds himself – Clint’s more likely to tease him on his way through to the shower than go running like some blushing maiden. 

That’s what Phil’s expecting when he comes into the bedroom, without even a stutter in his step as he catches sight off Phil all spread out on top of the sheets - a teasing smile, smart-alec words and a wink. 

What he’s not expecting is Clint’s fondly exasperated smile, for him to shake his head before flinging himself down beside him with enough of a jump to bounce him a couple of times on the mattress. 

“Want some help with that?” he asks, raising his eyebrows, and yeah, he’s definitely teasing him. 

“Do you find my technique lacking?” he asks, because he’s in love and he wants to make Clint laugh. “Think you can do better?” 

Clint snorts, grins hard and bites his lower lip in a poor attempt to hide it. Grabbing the lube, he clicks open the cap and squeezes some into his hand, shaking his head again as he warms it up between his fingers. 

“Really babe?” he asks, and the endearment makes Phil shiver the way it always does. “Sure you don’t wanna just triple-dog-dare me?” 

Phil smirks and does just that, pushing down his boxers to hook the elastic waistband under his balls, but he feels far less confidant than he’s trying to appear. 

Clint just laughs softly and rolls his eyes, scooching closer so that he’s propped on his elbow at Phil’s side, their bodies pressed together from chest to knee. Reaching over, he wraps his fingers around the base of Phil’s dick and slides them all the way up and off again in one slick stroke, dropping his erection to slap heavily against his belly. 

“Who’s cocky now?” he murmurs as Phil sucks in a hard, sharp breath, tossing his head back. 

“Still... still me I think,” he says, licking his lips. “Clint...” 

“Hmm.” 

Phil kinda loses the thread after that. He just sort of... falls into it, the warmth and solidity of Clint’s body cuddled up beside him, the smell of him, the heat of him, and his hand moving slowly but surely over his cock. Phil had thought a lot about his hands before they’d gotten together – broad, square palms, strong fingers, callouses and scars that he knows so well. He loves Clint’s hands, the way they touch him, cup his jaw for a kiss or massage his shoulders after a long day, and now they’re touching him in a way that he never thought they would. 

He orgasms before he can start thinking too hard about all of it. Hands fisted in the sheets beside him, he lets his hips rock, thrusting up through the circle of Clint’s fingers as he tosses his head back and forth – it's too good. Clint lies propped on his elbow, his eyes on Phil’s face the whole time, and when he finally comes all over Clint’s hand he thinks his heart bursts too, with love and joy and thankfulness. 

Collapsing back onto the pillows, Phil pants and tries to catch his breath, little shudders running through him from head to toe. Clint’s head is on his shoulder and he’s watching him quietly, a soft little smile on his face, and Phil can’t even handle it, huffs a heavy laugh and manages to lift his arm, wrap it around his partner’s shoulders. 

Clint hums, snuggles into it, then stares at the mess in his hand as he rubs his fingers together contemplatively. 

“Ew.” 

Phil snorts, chokes on a laugh he only half-tries to stop. 

Clint retaliates by wiping the cum off on Phil’s thigh, but he laughs when Phil swats his hand away, only to change his mind and grab hold, lacing their fingers together. 

“There,” he says with stupid satisfaction, sinking down into the bed with a noise like a purr as a bone-deep laziness roll over him. 

“Yeah, yeah, now we’re both sweaty and gross,” Clint grumbles, but it’s warm and fond and there’s a smile in his voice. 

Phil simply hums back, the wonderful tiredness of a good orgasm sapping his energy. Clint lies quietly beside him, holds his hand long enough that they’re stuck lightly together when he finally pulls away. Phil’s started to drift off by that point, but he still manages a smile when Clint leans in to murmur a sweet 'I love you’ and press a kiss to his cheek, to miss him when he leaves to get cleaned up.

**AVAVA**

Phil wakes up some time later with his face pressed to Clint’s hip and his arm wound tightly around his knee, snuggled close. Clint is sitting up against the headboard, reading a paperback and petting Phil’s hair absently, and god it’s good, it’s all so good.

“Hey sleepyhead,” he murmurs as Phil blinks himself awake, untangles himself and stretches luxuriously beside him. “How you feeling?” 

“Really, really good,” he says, rolling onto his back and looking up at his partner, because god, he’ll never get tired of that. “What about you?” 

“I’m good,” Clint chuckles with half a smile, eyes going back to his book. “You gonna shower?” 

“Hmm, yes,” Phil groans, rolling upright. “Be right back.” 

“I’ll be here.” 

Phil wanders into the bathroom only partially awake. It’s late, the lights are all dimmed, and his body is full of that warm, heavy, tired feeling he gets after the best sex, the kind you have with someone you really care about. As he starts the water and climbs in under the spray, he lets his mind drift back over the moment he and Clint had shared and the spectacular handjob that had accompanied it, and to his shock he actually starts to get hard again. 

The sight of his own erection unnerves him, and he immediately turns the water over to ice cold, scrubbing down as roughly as he can stand. The anxieties that he had pushed aside before come crashing back in on him, and he’s terrified that he’s opened some sort of X-rated Pandora’s box that he’ll now not be able to close. 

Shaken, he gets out of the shower and grabs his robe off the door, wrapping it around himself tight. Clint arches an eyebrow at him from the bed as he crosses to the dresser, but Phil can hardly bear to look at him. Pulling on a pair of clean sweats and a t-shirt, he actually hesitates, only to hear Clint huffing a laugh behind him. 

“Com’ere you dork,” he murmurs when Phil finally turns around, holding an arm open to him. 

And well, there’s no way he can turn that down, no matter how much he knows he shouldn't. 

“You good to debrief this thing?” Clint asks, once Phil has snuggled up beneath his arm. “Cause I think you need to babe.” 

Phil shivers at the endearment, knows he’s being stupid. 

“Yeah,” he manages to say, his voice sounding hoarse to his own ears. “Yeah, please.” 

“Ok. First, I want you to know that nothing that just happened bothered me in any way except this part,” he says, bringing his free hand across his chest to grab Phil’s, to brush his thumb over Phil’s knuckles. 

Phil swallows, lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. 

“That helps,” he says quietly, his cheeks burning. “Hearing it.” 

“Want me to say it again?” Clint asks, and it should be teasing but it’s sweetly serious instead. 

“I... maybe?” 

Clint smiles, turns his head and presses a kiss to Phil’s temple. 

“Nothing about what happened bothered me Phil,” he says, squeezing Phil’s fingers. “I promise. Hell, I even enjoyed it a little?” 

“I... think that’s part of what I’m having trouble with,” Phil admits. “I thought you didn’t... _enjoy_ sex.” 

“I don’t,” Clint confirms, playing with his fingers. “A lot of people invalidate asexuality because of people like me, but being asexual really just means that you don’t experience sexual attraction. What they don’t understand sometimes is that sex and sexual attraction don’t always go together.” 

“Ok, I get that part,” Phil nods. “You can have sex even though it doesn’t... get your engines running. But what _do_ you get out of it.” 

Clint laughs. 

“I get _you,”_ he says, squeezing Phil tight for a minute. “And before you go freaking out all over again, I don’t mean it like I think I have to buy you with sex. I quit doing that shit a long time ago. It’s like, I might not have any strong feelings about the salad, right? But hey, I love Ranch! And yeah, maybe I’d _rather_ be eating _pizza_ with my delicious salad dressing, but throwing some lettuce and tomatoes on top every once in a while is no biggie.” 

“Am... Am I the pizza in this analogy?” 

“Nah, you’re the Ranch baby,” Clint says with a grin, smacking another kiss to his cheek. "You make everything better." 

Phil huffs. 

“I hate your metaphors,” he grumbles. “But I guess I’ve been compared to worse things.” 

“I love you,” Clint says, and yeah, that’ll never get old. “You’re my fave. And maybe I do have a little more fun when we go to a ball game or cuddle on the couch with Dog Cops, but I like making you feel good too.” 

“You like _parts_ of the salad.” 

“Yes. There are _parts_ of a sexual experience that I can and do enjoy,” he says, toying with Phil’s fingers, before threading their hands together and squeezing tight. “I like the way you touch me cause you hold me close. I like the way you kiss me. I like the things you say and I like knowing that I’m making you feel good, that you want me.” 

“That’s the other part.” 

“What other part?” 

“The other part that scares me,” Phil says, his cheeks burning as he drops his eyes. 

“Hey,” Clint murmurs, tucking a finger under his chin to raise his face and peck a kiss to his lips. “Tell me? Did you not like it?” 

“I liked it too much,” he mumbles, before taking a deep breath. “It was... really, really good. And... more than I’d been telling myself I would get. And I was ok with that!” he rushes, “But I’m afraid I’ll start... fantasizing, or... I don’t know.” 

“So?” 

“So, what?” Phil asks, heart beating hard as he looks up at Clint’s face, all innocent, quizzical confusion. “That doesn’t seem...” 

“Phil,” Clint says in a tone that’s only slightly scolding. “That’s what you’re worried about?” 

Phil scowls, folds his arms and makes to pull away. 

“No, hey, hey, that’s not what I meant,” Clint reassures. “I’m not invalidating that. And it... it’s kind of sweet, that you’re worried about me. But baby, I don’t care.” 

Phil blinks, shocked, even though he knows somewhere deep down it’s not all that surprising. 

“You don’t...” 

“I know what I look like,” Clint says with a smug grin, winking at him. “Best Ass in SHIELD three years running. Unless you’re planning to go crazed sex-monster and club me over the head, drag me off to have your wicked way with me, it’s not a big deal.” 

“No,” Phil insists, his heart seizing up in his chest as he shakes his head. “Clint I wouldn’t...” 

“I know,” he says, turning to face him on the bed and taking Phil’s hands in his own. 

Phil lets him, settles so that they’re sitting criss-cross in front of each other, holding on tight. 

“This is why I gave us a chance,” Clint says, a little shyly as his cheeks pink. “Cause you’re such a damn gentleman. You didn’t know anything about all this and you were obviously off your game, but you just try so damn hard.” 

“You deserve it,” he says, throat tight when Clint lifts his head and smiles. 

“Yeah. But not a lot of people are willing to... do this,” he says, gesturing between them with their clasped hands. “The talking part. The listening part. I know I’m not exactly a role model when it comes to open and honest communication but... this is kind of awesome.” 

Phil smiles back at him, the weight finally, finally gone off his chest. 

“So in the interest of open and honest communication,” Clint says with a sly smirk, “I give _you,_ Phil Coulson, as my partner, full permission to fantasize about me as you see fit. Because I _trust_ you.” 

“I love you,” Phil says, like an idiot because there are no other words, no other sentiments left in his head, filling up his chest. 

“Love you too babe,” Clint laughs, leaning forward to give him one last kiss before rolling off the bed. 

“And who knows,” he says, heading toward the bathroom, “I might even let you top me one day.” 

Phil blinks, groans long and loud, and flops over onto his back, one arm thrown across his eyes as he listens to Clint hum _Birthday Sex_ around his toothbrush.


	4. Chapter 4

Phil’s birthday will come eventually – it's sort of an annual thing after all. He’s never really been one to celebrate it, but Clint’s tried to do _something_ to mark the occasion every year since he super-spied his way into records to steal Coulson’s hard file two years after joining SHIELD. That first time it had just been coffee – his favorite caramel apple macchiato that no one knew he loved, then one year a cupcake from his favorite food truck, then the next a tiny arrowhead Clint had found while away on an op that had seen him out of the country on July 8th. 

This year, this year he’s found an old Captain America poster, faded and ratty at the corners, but one that Phil definitely doesn’t have yet and one which an auctioneer has told him is really old, really genuine, and really expensive – much more so than Clint had shelled out for it after finding it in his favorite second-hand music store. He’s enlisted Natasha’s help in picking out a really nice restaurant, one with cloth napkins and reservations, and some really nice clothes, and he’s excited about a date in that jittery, butterflies-in-the-stomach way for the first time in a really long time. 

He wonders if maybe he should... 

No. 

No, not _should._

He wonders if he _wants_ to, and the answer to that is mostly yes. 

Now the only question is, does _Phil?_

“Your birthday’s coming up,” Clint says casually as they scrub down in the shower together. 

It’s been a few months since they started dating officially, and Phil’s gotten a lot more comfortable around Clint than he’d been at first, more open now that he knows where most of his boundaries lie. Nudity is easy again, the way it had been before they began seeing each other, when they were both just SHIELD agents with little modesty and even less to be ashamed of. At the moment, Phil’s rinsing shampoo from his hair, his head tipped back to the spray, eyes shut, and Clint is watching the water run over his body with quiet appreciation. 

“Do you have plans I should prepare for?” he asks, a smirk playing around the corners of his mouth. 

“I wouldn’t be mad if we were both free that night.” 

“I’ll put in for two days stand-down,” he says, stepping out of the spray and shaking water from his eyes, moving easily to switch places with Clint and reach up for the shower gel. “Shouldn’t be a problem.” 

Clint hums, rinsing his own hair and watching as Phil soaps up, then stepping forward to slide his hands over his back and shoulders. He loves that they’ve gotten to this point, that he can touch and cuddle and get close, even like this – wet and naked - and they’re both comfortable. It’s not just that Phil won’t expect sex to come from it, but that he’s happy with it as it is, just touching. 

“Is there anything you want?” he asks, stepping closer and pressing himself against Phil’s back, kissing his bare shoulder. 

“Just you,” Phil says, and a sweet, sappy warmth spreads through Clint’s body, makes his chest hurt and his eyes sting. “Two whole days... Just to be with you.” 

“That’s kinda what I meant,” Clint murmurs, sliding his hands around Phil’s ribs and down his front suggestively. 

It comes out a little like a question, but not nervous, which is good. 

He’s not _nervous,_ just a little unsure about _how_ this will all work. 

He’s confident it _can._

Phil still freezes subtly against him, careful and waiting, and Clint smiles against the nape of his neck. 

God, that’s why he loves him. 

“Think about it,” he murmurs, sliding a slick hand down over Phil’s cock, soft but twitching between his legs. “Let me know.” 

Phil turns to look at him with a complicated expression, but Clint just winks and steps out, toweling off while Phil grumbles and glares at him through the glass door, gives his dick a few rough tugs. Clint laughs under his breath, wants to sing, because this is what he wanted, this easy back and forth, easy comfort. It’s everything that had been missing from his previous relationships, the opposite of everything he’d hated. He’s comfortable teasing Phil every once in a while, totally comfortable with the idea of going all the way because of who Phil is, because of who they are together. 

When he gets out, he’ll snap his towel at Clint’s ass and grab him tight around the waist, hug him and bury his face in his neck, breathe him in, and then he’ll go on about whatever business he has. They’ll make dinner together, and sack out on the couch to watch Dog Cops, and Clint will curl up in his lap and probably fall asleep there. 

It’s everything he’s ever wanted and he loves it, but he doesn’t mind the idea of a little more.

**AVAVA**

“I’m not saying it’s going to happen...” Phil says slowly one night a few weeks later as he kneads a lump of dough that’s going to turn into his famous coconut-pineapple scones. “Or that it has to. But... how would something like that work?”

“Depends on what you’re interested in,” Clint says with a shrug, knowing automatically what Phil’s talking about but keeping his words and his body language deliberately casual. 

All he really wants is to melt into a puddle and smother his partner with kisses for how sweet and considerate he is. 

He’s cleaning pistols at the dining room table as Phil works, has got them all broken down in front of him and purposefully keeps doing what he’s doing, keeps his hands busy and his eyes on the task, his shoulders loose. He is Hawkeye though, and he can see Phil frown out the corner of his eye. Sighing, he sits back and wipes his hands on the cleaning rag, moves to sit on the barstool on the other side of the counter across from Phil, who isn’t looking at him. 

“It’s not a big deal for me babe, not the way you’re thinking,” he says softly. “You remember what I said that night at the bar, when we were getting into the cab?” 

“That you’re ace, not traumatized,” Phil recites, but his tone is flat and dull. 

“Yep,” Clint agrees, injecting a smile into his own voice. “I’ve had sex before - pretty much every kind you can think of. So I’d be open to talking about it, if it’s something you want.” 

Phil opens his mouth but nothing comes out, and he frowns again, going back to his scone batter, which he shapes into a neat circle. Picking up his bench scraper, he taps it against his palm, a nervous tell he would never allow at work, before slicing the thick dough into triangular lumps of deliciousness. 

“I suppose I just can’t picture _how...”_

“It’s usually a peg A, hole B sort of thing,” Clint teases, and Phil meets his eyes long enough to cast him an unimpressed glare. “I’ve bottomed before Phil. Sometimes it’s boring, sometimes it feels good. Sometimes I even get an orgasm out of it, if I’m paying that much attention...” 

Clint trails off, remembering that one time the guy he’d been with had stormed out of their hotel room naked because Clint had had the gall to turn on some cartoons while he’d been screwing him from behind. 

Hey, at least he hadn’t actually nodded off right? 

He’s sure the guy’s ego recovered... um, eventually. 

“The point is,” he continues, shaking his head, “Just because I’m not sexually aroused by the idea of sex, doesn’t mean I can’t have it.” 

Phil’s shoulders are stiff and he actually scowls. 

“I don’t think I could use you like that.” 

For all of a second, Clint’s heart stops. 

He doesn’t mean to do it. Doesn’t mean to lunge across the counter, to grab Phil by the front of his shirt and drag him in for a long, hard kiss. He pushes into it, crushes their mouths together, bites at his lower lip, threading his fingers into Phil’s hair and holding him, just... just holding him. 

“I love you,” he says, desperately, insistently as he rests his forehead against Phil’s, stares into the soft blue eyes he’d fallen for so long ago. “God Phil, so much. Gonna make me marry you one day, talkin’ like that.” 

_“Clint...”_

“You don’t get it do you?” he asks, peppering small kisses to Phil’s lips even as he grips Clint’s wrists tightly. “You’re so amazing Phil. You’re so careful, and so damn considerate, and...” 

“You deserve it,” he says back between kisses, pressing just as hard as Clint is into their embrace. “You deserve it Clint, I’m not... This isn’t _special._ I just... I never want to...” 

“And you never have, and you never will,” Clint says, with a conviction that he feels down to his toes. 

Phil shivers, and Clint breathes, and they both sort of just sigh and sag against each other, sinking down onto their elbows on the countertop. 

“If this is a hard limit for you that’s ok,” Clint says, still cupping Phil’s jaw in his hand and stroking his thumb over his cheekbone. “I’m not _pushing_ this on you. But if it’s something you want, I guess I’m just trying to tell you that I’m down with it. You know, once in a while.” 

_“Down with it,”_ Phil mutters, scoffing, teasing, but he still sounds skeptical and Clint guesses that’s ok. 

“It wouldn’t be like that with you,” he murmurs, because he knows that down to his core and wants Phil to know it too. “You wouldn’t ever use me, don’t see me as a toy, or an object. You love me the way I am and don’t ask for more, so this is just me offering it, because I want to.” 

Phil stares at him with a look in his eyes like love, strokes his wrist. 

“I’d get to look at you,” he continues quietly. “I’d get to see your face, the way you move. I’d get to see how good I was making you feel. It probably won’t make me horny, but it’ll definitely make me... happy. If it’s you.” 

“If it’s you,” Phil murmurs back, and Clint smiles.

**AVAVA**

July 8th finally arrives and Clint is surprised but delighted to realize that he’s not anxious at all, not waiting for the answer to the question he’d never really posed. It’s nice, and he decides that if sex happens it happens and if it doesn’t it doesn’t - besides, planned sex is always awkward and Clint will be perfectly happy either way, as long as Phil is happy too.

They sleep in late knowing that they don’t have to come in to work and Clint lets Phil snuggle him in bed for hours longer than he usually gets to. The guy is incredibly tactile when he’s sleepy, and winds himself around Clint like a cuddly octopus, all arms and legs tangled up around him as he sighs and smiles and hums happily against Clint’s skin. When the sun is high enough to start pushing through the crack in the curtains, he extracts himself delicately, pecks Phil a kiss on the cheek as he grumbles and hides his face in the pillow, and heads out to the kitchen to start the coffee. 

He fixes breakfast and brings it back to bed, where they feed each other bites of pancake and bacon and fruit, getting sticky with syrup and moving to the shower in tandem to clean up. They wash each other off, Phil’s hands stroking over Clint’s skin just to touch, and then climb out to brush and dress. They stand next to each other at the sink, bumping shoulders, grinning bashfully, and it’s all just awesome. 

They spend the day trawling around the city, stepping in and out of shops, perusing records and comic books, wandering through the park. After paying their way into the aquarium they spend the afternoon watching the sea otters gambol around and petting the cow-nosed rays in the touch tank, like slick, firm marshmallows. Clint gets splashed when one flicks its tail and Phil laughs, and something deep inside his chest lights up bright and warm and happy. 

He has to spoil the surprise a little in order to get Phil home in time to change. Him, he doesn’t really enjoy getting all gussied up in the suit and tie and dress shoes, but he loves the look on Phil, and he loves the look it puts on Phil’s face when Clint finally gets the knot right and does a twirl on stepping out of the bathroom. 

That’s actually a pretty good analogy for other things, but Clint doesn’t bring it up because it feels blunt and heavy-handed, and unnecessary really. He hadn’t lied to Phil – he's not going to push sex on him if it’s not something _he_ wants. Clint’s made the offer and that’s enough, so now he just buttons the jacket on the tailored suit Natasha had tricked him into getting made and escorts his partner to dinner. 

It’s a fancy place, posh and dimly lit, with cloth napkins and then kind of hushed atmosphere that would normally make Clint’s skin itch. He doesn’t really notice the quiet decadence all around him – he's too busy watching Phil, watching him relax into this space that he’s so comfortable in, watching his natural _sir_ come out. 

That doesn’t really make sense, but he doesn’t know how else to describe it. 

Phillip J. Coulson is one suave dude, and tonight he gets that all to himself. 

Phil orders the wine. 

He orders Clint’s meal too, because he’s been too busy staring sappily across the table to pick up the menu, and Phil’s French is better anyway. 

After the waiter pours and quietly excuses himself, Phil reaches a hand across the table and takes Clint’s, laces their fingers together. 

“Thank you for tonight,” he says softly, eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “It’s been wonderful.” 

“Not over yet,” Clint says with a wink. “I hear there’s a wicked opera cake on the dessert menu.” 

“You’re right,” Phil practically purrs. “Shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves. I want to enjoy this... for as long as I can.” 

“For as long as you want,” Clint promises, squeezing Phil’s fingers, and he’s surprised when the corner of his mouth tics, that little tell he’s got when he’s thinking about something, planning something. 

It sends a little shiver down his spine, because only good things have ever followed that look. 

Well, for _him_ at least. 

Dinner’s delicious and the opera cake alone would have been totally worth the price of admission if Phil’s adoration wasn’t. They split a slice and linger over tiny cups of espresso, and Clint feels good slipping his personal credit card into the leather folder laid discretely on the edge of the table, picking up the tab and leaving a heavy tip. Phil drives them home because Clint had wanted to take Lola and he loves watching the way Phil handles her, and once they get home Clint moves into the living room to close the blinds and start a jazz record playing quietly. 

He’s with Phil on one thing that’s for sure – he wants to enjoy this for as long as he can. 

“I love you,” Phil murmurs in his ear as he steps up behind Clint and slips his arms around his waist, cuddling up against his back and nuzzling at the hinge of his jaw. 

Clint hums happily, turns in Phil’s arms and nuzzles back. 

“I love you too,” he replies, pulling back so they can see each other. “Happy Birthday Phil.” 

Sighing happily, Phil steps in close again and lays his head on Clint’s shoulder, breathing against his throat. Moving slowly, he guides them into a gentle sway, dancing them across the living room as the music plays quietly in the background. It’s a perfect moment, everything Clint has ever wanted in his life, and he pretty much forgets about everything else but the man in his arms until Phil slows to a stop on the middle of the rug. 

“You said something, before,” he says slowly, hesitantly. “Offered something...” 

Clint smiles, cups Phil’s face in his hand and brushes his thumb across his cheek. He’s taking a deep breath, steeling himself, and how sweet is this man, seriously? His eyes flick back and forth a few times, thinking, then he lifts his chin and meets Clint’s gaze. 

“It _is_ something I want Clint,” he says, dropping his shoulders a little and straightening his spine, brave. “Something I want from _you._ I...” 

Shaking his head, he takes a step back, and Clint’s stomach drops a little thinking that he’s changing his mind, but then his heart absolutely stops. 

Phil’s going down on one knee. 

“You said I was going to make you marry me,” he says carefully, pulling a small box out of his pocket. “I don’t... I’m not going to _make you_ do anything Clint, but I...” 

Blowing out a breath, he looks away quickly, that adorable little crinkle forming between his eyebrows, and Clint can’t talk because suddenly his mouth is all full of his heart. 

“I did this better in my head,” he says, exasperation creeping in on the edges of his tone, and Clint slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle a giggle as sheer, giddy joy floods through him, bright and hot and beautiful as the picture in front of him sinks in, as Phil cracks open the little box to reveal a narrow silver band inlaid with a thin twist of purple. 

“Clint, I love you,” he says insistently, and he’s looking up at Clint again all earnest and insistent and oh god, hurry up and ask, he’s barely holding it together here, “And I know it’s probably too soon but I’m sure of this. I hope _you’re_ sure of this. And I want... that is, do you think you’d...” 

“Yes!” Clint blurts, because he’s gonna burst if he doesn’t get it out and maybe Phil hadn’t gotten the _question_ out yet but he doesn’t seem to mind because he’s surging to his feet and they’re laughing and there are tears streaming hot down Clint’s face and his cheeks are aching with how wide his smile is as Phil slides the ring onto his finger. 

“Yes!” he says again, laughing as he leans forward to press delighted, ridiculous smooches to Phil’s lips as they lean against each other, Phil pressing forward with another kiss that’s long and hard and lasting. 

“Yes?” he breathes, and Clint just smiles, nods and laughs and grips Phil’s hand tight so that they can both see the ring gleaming on his finger. 

“Yes Phil Coulson,” he says happily. “I will marry you.”


End file.
